Alone I Break
by Qween of the Damned
Summary: Suffering and pain are no new concepts to a human at war--but Jon Pevensie finds out that it's a lot easier with someone there to guide you. Short, drabble-esque.
1. Chapter 1

"In a moment, everything you know and love can be ripped from you, and you can be left naked and alone in the dark," Jonathon Pevensie said softly, and closed the dead eyes of the man before him. He was aware of the stares from his fellow soldiers, but he didn't meet their gaze.

"Why?" asked Tommy, gesturing to the dead man. Tommy. A boy who was so young he could well have been Jon's own son…

"Because he's human as much as every man in this hole," he answered.

"He's the enemy," Tommy spat out. Jon sighed, and closed his eyes—though he could see little enough in the fading light.

"And he's dead. We respect the dead. He died with honour, defending his part to the end. He was a good soldier."

"You have too much sympathy for the blasted Nazis, Jon, I'd half say you was one of them," Reuben, a brawny man who had, since the beginning of the war, shown everyone how much he absolutely hated the Germans.

"He could have had a family," Jon murmured, his eyes not leaving the dead man's face.

"Yeah, he _could_ have, but we here _do_," Reuben said, lifting the curtain and peering out the grimy, small window. "I have a wife and the children. I'd like to get home alive through all this. I know you're married. But the way you hesitate to kill just makes me wonder how much you actually want to live."

Jon looked at the other man's form hunched on the far side of the room, then to young Tommy, where he sat leaning against the wall, eyes closed, and lastly to Lukas, who stood next to the doorway—the door itself had been broken away long ago.

They were all that was left of their unit, and the last orders their commander had given them had been to head south, to the beach—they would be rescued there. There were times he doubted there would be help there. But still they kept going.

In hope.

And it was hope that kept him alive, through the bombs and bullets and blood, it was hope that kept him going. Going home. To Helen.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon stared blankly out at the sunrise.

He did anything he could to not look down. He didn't want to look down at the bodies left behind after the war. He didn't want to look at the burnt, blackened shells of what had once been a thriving town. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"Oh God, if you're there, hear me now. Help me. I've sinned. Oh, God, I've killed. Those I've killed didn't deserve to have their lives taken from them, and yet I took it. I look around me, and even if the bodies lying here are those of mothers and children, and not soldiers, God, those who killed these innocents are no different than me. I killed to, God, and now I come crawling to you for absolution..." he broke off with a derisive laugh.

"Speaking to your God again?" Rueben asked from behind him. Jon turned and smiled sadly.

"Yes."

"You're mad. God's forsaken us in this war."

"Perhaps."

"I know it. You best bring yourself to that reality, Jon, or your God's gonna get you killed. You'll rush out there like some possessed preacher, and you'll get cut to ribbons by the thousands of bullets that'll pierce you. Nazis," he said, and spat.

"No politics or religion at the dinner table, boys," Tommy smirked, and came to stand next to them.

"Bugger off," Rueben said.

"Where's Lukas?" Jon asked.

Tommy shrugged. He turned away, and headed down the small rise. Rueben sat down, opened his pack, and took out an onion he'd found a few miles back. Jon finally looked at his surroundings, but he still tried to block them out, looking only for one thing: Lukas.

Jon finally saw the man.

He walked towards him, watching the man, thinking on what he knew about him. Lukas wasn't much of a talker, but eleven months with the same people tended to get you to share. He was the son of a preacher, and his father had told him he would always be useless. Lukas had subsequently enlisted, to prove his worth. He had been shot in the shoulder, and the recently deceased medic had had to dig the bullet out, and Lukas had screamed. Later, he had cried on Jon's shoulder, saying he just wanted to go home.

Jon looked at Lukas now. Lukas was digging graves. Lukas was going to bury the dead.

"We respect the dead," he muttered when he saw Jon staring. "If I die, I'd love a Nazi's woman to bury me." He lifted the body of a what had once been a pretty young blonde woman, not dead more than two days. He gently put the body in the ground.

"Don't care about maggots and the like. I figure I have no dead flesh for them to feast on, but if I do, I don't mind getting eaten alive anyhow." Jon looked into Lukas' eyes. They were dead.


	3. Chapter 3

They hid in the grass at the side of the road until they could identify the convoy that rode towards them. It was the beloved British. Reuben ran out to them, waving and half crying with joy.

They rode on, ignoring the stranded soldiers.

The four men followed the road from then, too tired to care who saw them anymore. Rueben cursed his beloved England loudly for most of the way.

They reached the first encampment three days after they had seen the convoy. There were twenty men there, only, because everyone else was at the beach. Or headed there.

"Why are you still here, then?" Jon asked the colonel, the highest ranking man, a grizzly old timer, who was half mad with the thrill of being at war.

"We're the ones who don't believe that hogwash about the rescue. Bloody hell, this is war! We enlisted! We came here to send those spawn to hell, why are we running away? And besides," he said to Jon, taking a swig of whiskey from a small pocket flask, "I doubt our boys are up to much rescuing. They most like have their hands full handing the rest of the place that's getting attacked. This is, after all, a _world_ war, and we're only in one county."

"Surely they won't leave us here," Reuben said, and cursed again.

"You go down to the beach, and after all is done, come back and tell me, will ya?" The colonel said.

"What are you going to do?" Jon asked.

"Kill Hitler." It was said with such bluntness, Jon blinked.

"What?"

"We're sneaking into Germany."

"We're in _France, _you fool," Tommy said. The colonel turned to him. 

"Got guts to call me names, _boy_, but how many wars have you seen? How many people have you killed?"

"I've had enough of this shit," Tommy said, and stalked out of the tent.

"He's right," Jon muttered. "We're in France. What can we do?"

"We have transport. We'll get there. Have you heard what's happening to the Jews? Those Nazis are killing them—men, women, children..." the old man's voice faded out of Jon's consciousness, and images of the dead he had seen...dead French, dead Germans, dead English, dead Jews...

"And what will more killing help?" Jon broke into the colonel's speech.

"Kill the enemy," the colonel said softly.

"But the innocent always die first," Jon replied, and turned away.


	4. Chapter 4

Jon didn't know what he was doing in the back of the milk truck that was jammed full of men and weapons. He did know he was alone. Reuben, Tommy, and even Lukas, were probably on a ship back to England even as he sat here, heading the other way.

"Give this to my wife," he had said, handing the envelope to Lukas, trusting him more than the other two to actually do it, were he able. Lukas had gazed at him with those piercing green eyes, and nodded.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I can't go. I just can't. I have to get out of this." Jon had nodded. He understood. He really did. He didn't know what he was doing, not going. Not going home.

"It's alright, Lukas, it's alright." Jon's own words echoed in his ears now. But it wasn't alright. Every mile took him further from his family.

Jon closed his eyes and let the rattle of the truck lull him to sleep.

He dreamed. He dreamed he was by the sea, with Helen and the children. There was Peter, playing with Lucy in the waves. Susan lay in the sun, reading, and Edmund was walking along the shoreline, collecting pebbles. Helen was beside him, watching them. He turned and faced her. But then she wasn't Helen anymore—she was everyone he had killed—all their faces, he saw clearly, and he started back, looking to his children. They lay dead in the sand, bleeding from wounds he couldn't bear to see. He tried to cover his eyes, but his hands were heavy, and he looked down to see he was chained to the ground, and there was the roar of battle all around him.

Jon screamed his frustration, and all because silent. The tears coursed down his cheeks, and he felt warm air stir him, and he opened his eyes.

He gazed into the eyes of the Lion again. For weeks now, this lion had been in his worst nightmares—not bringing fear, but giving peace—an odd silence and salve to his torment. Jon finally reached up to touch the beast, and wrapped his hands in the animal's great mane. He lay his head on the Lion's neck, and sobbed.

There was a violent lurch, and Jon woke.


	5. Chapter 5

Rueben set foot on English soil and closed his eyes. It was four months since he had left France, and thirteen months in total since he'd seen his wife. She wasn't on the docks that he could see. He'd sent word to her, but didn't know if she'd gotten it or not. Nothing was more uncertain than the mail, in these times. He grunted, slapped Tommy on the back, and headed up the street that would take him home.

He could see the war still went on. It was less evident here, in England, but there were traces nonetheless. He grimaced as he passed the burned shell of a house, thinking back on the houses he'd seen while he was away—and the dead that filled them. The dead Lukas always wanted to bury...

He brushed the thought of the young man angrily from his mind—he had said his farewells to Tommy and Reuben even before the boat docked, and had been away, chasing a ride to London, to get to Jon's family. He promised, he tried to explain, but Reuben hadn't been interested. Jon was a fool. He kept going. He was noble and courageous, yes, but also a big, stupid fool.

Reuben paused at the door to his home. He didn't know what to do. He worried his lip in momentary uncertainty, but then roughly shoved the door open.

Mary hovered above the stove, the very vision he had remembered. She turned sharply at the sound of the door, and Reuben could hear the profanity form on her lips, and die as she recognized him.

"Oh," she said softly, and his heart melted. His breath came back, and then she was in his arms, kissing him, and he was kissing her, kissing her like he had never done before, and all the months and ages away evaporated, and there was just them...just them, alone.

"Daddy?" the small voice asked from the direction of the bedroom. Reuben broke away from Mary to see his young son looking at them.

"Child," he murmured, "oh child, come here." The little boy hugged him, and Reuben held his child and wife close, breathing them in.

"Reuben," Mary said softly, "I've a surprise for you." She went to the room, and came back with a bundle. "This is Matthias. He's your son." She held a baby not older than four months.

Reuben looked at the babe, and crumpled to the ground, sobbing.


	6. Chapter 6

Jon looked at the colonel as if he was mad. The man _was _mad.

"It's not possible."

"We thought getting into Germany was impossible."

"This is _mad_," he hissed. "Getting prisoners out?"

"Prisoners of _war_. They don't deserve to be in there."

"I am not doing this. I am not doing this!"

"Jon, so few of us have survived. Of the twenty one brave souls –"

"Stop speaking like that! This isn't some play. This is war, old man!"

"Yes. So we must do our bit to aid the war effort."

"We can't pull this off. There are only seven of us. We're tired, beaten men, before a real battle has even begun. This is madness."

"You have to help me get those men out of there," the colonel said.

"I don't know. I don't know. We have no plan, damn it!" Jon slammed his fist into a tree, and wished he could scream in rage.

"Please, Jon."

Jon felt his resolve weaken. He wanted to help the men. God knew how much he did. But this was a suicide mission. The men who had died in the skirmishes leading up to this point were lucky—better off, even. The remaining few were left in the middle of a warzone, with a mad colonel.

"Fine." It came out as a grunt. "We need a plan."

"Hank has one. Come, let's call a war council."

Jon closed his eyes. "Oh God, grant me patience. And protection. I would like to see Helen one last time before I die. Please."


	7. Chapter 7

Lukas stood on the steps, in his uniform, letter in hand, shaking.

He raised his hand and knocked softly. Perhaps no one was home. Most children were sent to the country. Perhaps Jon's wife had been fortunate enough to be able to go with hers.

The door opened.

"Good morning," a beautiful woman said with a smile. Her dark hair fell in gently styled waves to just below her shoulders, and she was dressed in sombre colours—but that did nothing to diminish the elegance with which she carried herself. "How can I help you?" He could see the confusion in her eyes—though she masked it well—at a soldier knocking on her door.

"Good morning, marm," he said softly. "My name is Lukas. Lukas Benet." He held the envelope up. It was in a pitiful state, having travelled everywhere in this breast pocket. She looked at it in confusion. "I served alongside your husband." Her hand went to her mouth.

"Oh, God, no," she said, her knees buckling. He caught her just before she hit the ground.

"Ma'am, are you alright?" Lukas frowned. Oh-God-no what?

"Please say he's not ..." she bit back a sob. Lukas understood.

"I don't know no, marm. I left him four months ago. He was alright then." It would do no good to mince words, so he told it like it was. "I have to go, marm, but I don't love too far from here. If you need, I can come around to help you with things such as groceries and repairs around the house." Lukas lived three miles from here, but he would have walked through coals for Jon. He would do the same for anyone Jon loved. The man had been the closest friend Lukas had ever had.

"Thank you, Mr Benet," she said weakly. He helped her to her feet. "I must read this letter alone, though. I think I might be rather emotional." She smiled a sad smile, and Lukas took it as his cue to leave.

"Jon was a brave man. He'll be alright," he said, as he walked down the stairs, and back down Finchley Road.


	8. Chapter 8

There was what went well, what just happened, and what went wrong. Very wrong.

Jon clenched his teeth as the boot came crashing into his mid-section again. The colonel and the others had at least made it to safety with twelve of the prisoners. That was the only thought that kept him from screaming in agony. He was certain a rib or two was broken.

The remaining POWs who were working about in the enclosure cast sympathetic glances his way, but he didn't notice them. He glared up at the man before him, who raised his rifle, and the butt coming towards him was the last thing Jon knew.

He woke up with a groan, and a hand pushed him back onto the mat when he tried to rise.

"Lay still, fool." A husky voice that made him force his eyes open—but it wasn't Reuben. Another man, emaciated and tired looking stared down at him. "You're one of the fools who tried to break us out. I saw you. You diverted the guards so the others could escape. What, did you think you'd get a medal for it?" he scoffed.

Jon closed his eyes. "Dunno," he said, and the pain that shot up his jaw prevented him from saying more. He truly didn't know what had possessed him to create the stupid diversion when the guards had spotted them.

"Well, welcome to hell," the other man said. "I'm Greg." He waited. Jon said nothing. He had passed out again.

He woke to silence. He opened his eyes slightly—it was a little easier this time. He was alone in a log cabin, it seemed, and the wooden walls and roof stirred a memory in him, and he felt a pain that wasn't all physical.

"Helen," he whispered. "Peter, Susan, Edmund. Lucy." He said their names through the pain, and felt the burn as tears slipped down his face.

He didn't want to die. He wanted to see them again. He hoped—prayed—that they were alright, he hoped that the pathetic effort being carried out here was protecting England, and his family. Would Helen have sent the children to the country? They had discussed it before he left...so long ago. Would Helen have gone with them? What if they hadn't and they were dead? Or, oh, God forbid, wounded, lying somewhere in a bombed out London, unable to get aid...he was unable to help them... Jon grit his teeth. He would do anything for news of them. He would do anything to get home again. And this time he wouldn't be a bloody fool and head the other way.

The next time he woke, it was to the face of the man who had put him in the bed in the first place.

"Get up, dog." Cold, accented English. Jon struggled. He rose. He panted from exhertion.

"You begin work now." The man stalked out, and his assistant handed Jon a shovel, and motioned for him to follow. Jon stopped short at the door, and looked out at the six dead bodies lying before him.

He was to dig graves.


	9. Chapter 9

Tommy lay staring into the dark night, remembering. He was home, and while he had still been travelling, he had thought that once he got home, the memories and nightmares would stop. Instead, they were worse. He remembered those he had left behind. He remembered those he had killed. He remembered those he had buried.

Tommy grimaced into the dark and swore at the thought of Lukas. Bloody baby. Tommy was younger than him, but Lukas was more pathetic.

Or was he?

Tommy rolled over, and ran a hand down the beautiful porcelain body that lay next to him. She stirred, and moaned in her sleep.

He turned abruptly away from her, and sat up, pulled on his pants and went to the window, pulling out a cigarette on his way there.

He swung the window open, and exhaled into the world outside. A gold cat was padding past, and Tommy clucked to attract its attention. It paused and looked at him, and then sauntered over.

"Hey, kitty," he said, as it allowed him to stroke it. The cat's fur was soft, and looked well cared for. Tommy smiled. He took another puff of his cigarette.

He'd enlisted because of the allure of battle, and glory. It was what had driven him, a simple seventeen year old, to war. He regretted it now. Now that he was older, and hopefully wiser, he knew there was no glory in battle. There was none at all. There was only pain and death.

"Tommy?" her voice was velvety from sleep. "You 'kay?"

"Yeah," he said shortly. He turned back to her, and climbed into her bed again. "I'm always okay."


	10. Chapter 10

It was a red dawn when Kyle handed Jon the key.

"To the thackleth," he whispered. He didn't have a lisp, it was just that the sound 'th' carried less than 's', and the men needed to be as quiet as they could. This was the third escape attempt since Jon had been in this hole, and every time, they failed.

Every time, he had to dig more graves.

Every time, a part of him died.

Jon shook his head. Kyle motioned eagerly. Jon glared, and took the key. He knew Kyle shouldn't have given it to him now—they were only escaping come nightfall. This was _dawn._ Was the man daft?

It was suicide. It always was.

When Jon was summoned to the General's quarters by a guard, he was immediately wary. Had one of the men sold them out as a desperate gamble to get out himself?

"I do not yet know your name, and you have been with me for three weeks."

Jon remained silent.

"I am General Hans Beiber." Jon still kept silent, regarding the man. "I have a family," he said. "I assume you do too."

Jon's jaw twitched. The General saw, and smiled. "I thought so."

"What do you want?"

"A favour. And you can return to your home."

Jon felt the weakness. He closed his eyes. "Oh, God. Be with me."


	11. Chapter 11

Jon lifted another brick, and fitted it into the pile that was slowly beginning to resemble a wall.

Building their own prison was just cruel. But he vaguely suspected they would be sharing the prison.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling. And it was proven right, when a truckload of women and children were brought to the camp, and shoved into a fenced in area.

"Where are the men?" a man working alongside Jon asked of the guards.

"Dead," the guard said impassively.

It was the last time any of the imprisoned solders asked what had happened to anyone who went missing.

Jon went back to the General that evening. He stared at the man.

"You'll let me free."

The General regarded him. "Free."

"And shoot me when I've gone three miles?"

"Why would I do that?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I doubt you would allow a prisoner to get away."

"Oh, ye of little faith," he said.

"I don't trust you."

"I do not blame you. But you should."

"You've given me no reason to."

Jon turned his back on the General. He closed his eyes. He couldn't do this.

"I'll do no favours for you," he whispered. "I want to see my family again, but I'll do no favours for you."

He left.


	12. Chapter 12

"Our love is comfortable," Jon whispered in her ear. She laughed softly, and curled closer to him.

"Promise you'll always be here," she said, and turned to him, gazing earnestly into his eyes.

"Helen, you know I can't promise that! I might find a proper old lady who can offer me a large library and lots of artefacts..." Jon mock-sighed, and dramatically waved his hand in the air. Helen laughed, and slapped his arm lightly.

"Seriously," he murmured, looking at her, his face straight. "I'll never leave you."

"Stupid promises," Jon said, and cursed. "God, what am I doing here? Why am I here? I find no purpose in this war. I'm one man, and in a prison camp, nonetheless. What use am I?"

"God's long gone from this place, man," the soldier on the next mat said. Jon said nothing for a moment.

"Then why are we still alive?"

"Because that Nazi General is Satan."

"Bull," said Jon. "Bull."

"Could well be true."

"You believe he's Satan, but God's not here? You're mad." The man grunted and turned away. Jon was silent again.

"God, help me. Give me strength. Give us all strength. We can't go on much longer. Protect us. Protect our loved ones back home. Please. And show me what must be done."

Jon was certain he imagined the warm breeze that caressed his cheek as he fell asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Helen needed to breathe. She was suffocating, dying. She couldn't go on.

She shoved the papers down, and didn't care about the stares that followed her as she ran from the building. She just had to get out. The awful clutching, nauseating feeling that held her heart was killing her. It felt like she was breaking.

Breathe, she needed to breathe.

"Oh God," she whispered. She couldn't. What if something was happening to Jon? She couldn't live without him. She didn't know how!

She closed her eyes and sank to the sidewalk.

Breathe, she just needed air. She sucked it in, and felt the sobs coming and overflowing tears.

She wanted t scream and cry. But crying never fixed anything.

"Please God, don't let anything have happened t him. Please, what will I tell the children? Oh, God..."

She groaned as the pain subsided.

Did this mean something?

Was everything alright?

Was she going mad?


	14. Chapter 14

Jon knew the escape was lost before it even started, but the men kept going. The hole hidden by bush was small, but the men were thin from lack of food, so they made it through. But it was freezing in the night air, and they were ill garbed.

It was the end of summer. Maybe, if they got out this time, he wouldn't miss another Christmas.

The dogs started barking, and the men started running. Jon ran, breathing steadily first, but then more labouredly as they had to keep going. He had a powerful thirst and a stitch in his side.

One of the men fell behind. The others kept going.

"Run," Jon heard someone breathe beside him, "Run, run, run, run."

Another man fell behind, and called to his fellows to wait. They didn't. One looked back—and tripped. Five more, including Jon. They ran.

Still the dogs—and now the sound of vehicles. Gunshots in the distance behind them, as they ran through the forest. Jon wondered who would dig the graves in the morning. They would bury him as well.

"God," he panted as he ran, "God, oh God, be here, be with us." He didn't know what t pray anymore.

Finally the sound of their pursuers died out. They stopped, after that. They breathed. They lay on the ground and sobbed. They paced, trying to return their pulses to normal.

They were out.


	15. Chapter 15

Jon took the steps slowly, carefully, and not only because of his wounds. His leg was healing well, but more worrying to him was that he was home.

It was where he had wanted to be here every day for the past almost-two years. Today was December 20th, and as fine a day to be home as any. He paused, though, and wondered if he should knock.

"Behold," he muttered to himself. He raised his hand, and placed it on the doorknob. He turned it, and the door swung in. He heard the voices, and could place Helen's but his children, he assumed they were, sounded so...different from his memories.

"Father?" He looked into the incredulous eyes of his baby girl.

"Lucy," he rasped out, and gasped. She was there—and more. There was, to his tired eyes, an aura about her. And he held her tight as she hugged him. She laughed, and called to the others, who came into the room one by one. Susan. More beautiful than he remembered. Peter. Tall and majestic looking, showing his emotions unashamedly, and yet in such a ...manly way. Edmund, dear Ed who had thrown tantrums when Jon had left, hugged his father, and smiled, and looked on his family with such affection...

What had happened here? What had changed them so?

But all thought flew from Jon when Helen walked into the room. His breath stopped.

He walked to her, and held her for long moments while she sobbed, and then he kissed her, not caring that his children laughed and quietly left the room.

"Helen," he whispered. "So long I've been gone. I—"

"Oh, be quiet," she scolded, and pulled him in for another kiss. "I've missed you too."

_Author's note: _ A lot of me goes into my stories. Some of my personality, some of my emotions, some of my personal experiences. When I wrote this, my family and I were going through an incredibly difficult time, and I used reading and writing as an escape. Unfortunately, most books that I usually enjoyed sort of lost their charm, and most stories I was busy with, I couldn't work on, because I simply didn't 'feel it'. So I began writing my feelings, and then creating a character, and then I decided, 'you know what, I'm not the only one who experiences pain, it's not new to humans...' and I thought of people being separated—not by want, but by circumstances, and 'for the best'. I considered—and even started—an original work, but then it got a touch too personal for me, and it hurt too much to go on. So I went to work with a pre-existing character. With one of those, you can put yourself into their shoes, but the shoe is always a little too big, or too small, so it's easier to write about and feel attached, yet aloof.

And Jon and the rest came into being. The chapters are so short because I wrote them as flashes—instead of my usual drawn out rubbish. I just wanted drabbles and shorts. Not too much detail, but just enough angst.

Most of what came out came as frustrations I've had and thought about—many of Jon's opinions mirror my own. Thoughts about war and politicians and crazy old colonels...don't worry, I write about the colonel with love—my grandfather was one. All I know about him I know from my grandmother. I never met the man, but I feel as if I knew him well.

Of course, the underlying current of the story is Christianity. I have a lot of frustrations with Christians, but none with Christ. Through my hard times, Jesus has always been there for me—even as I cursed and questioned and screamed at him. Unconditional love. People ask me how I can believe in God when such terrible things happen—even to me, a Christian. How can I still wake up in the morning, pray, smile, and go on with life after everything?

Because God is with me. And because of him and him alone, I survive.

...Um. This Author's Note is almost longer than the chapters in this story. Eish.


End file.
